


those letters for my heart, and those for yours

by whiplashcrash



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: I have been conscripted into writing a happy ending, IT'S ROMANTIC OKAY so get on board or get out, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, actually been beta'd, allusions to nude portraits, and two idiots writing letters because it's romantic, but still it was touch and go for a moment there, honestly idek why AO3 even asks what pairing I'm writing anymore like?? yeah, kallus the disaster attempting to get through one year as Fulcrum, mentions of wrestling and "sparring", oh yeah i forgot, two idiots pining, which would've been totally fine if not for uh pining, willingly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplashcrash/pseuds/whiplashcrash
Summary: Where the cold of Bahyrn has seeped into his bones, an Agent for order struggles with turmoil rooted in his very being. A desire to walk away and a dream of another kind of life collide with the impossible dance of words between himself and a stranger who he cannot bring himself to call an enemy for one moment more.He cannot imagine being able to hold the pieces of himself together for one moment more.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vintaged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintaged/gifts).



> for my lovely friend, I hope this is what you wanted. <3

As most complicated things do, it starts out simple.

After seeing -more like catching a brief glimpse of in the moment before he loses sight of him- the Lasat in the wake of the Spectre’s latest assault, Agent Kallus stands unsteadily in the doorway to the hangar, rooted to his spot. The Lasat and Sabine Wren dart across the open room towards the edge, where a thin shield keeps the whipping air from tearing through the inside of the facility. Kallus watches from the shadows; wrestling with himself.

No one knows he has arrived at the facility yet; he could do nothing, say nothing, and no one would know. Not Konstantine, not the Stormtroopers; not even the shuttle’s pilots. And yet- yet he would know if he did nothing. He would know and he would feel the conflict he endures in this moment for the rest of his life.

His hand rests on his bo-rifle; all Agent Kallus has to do is pull his arm back over his shoulder and pull the trigger of the mighty weapon, but all he can think of, watching Zeb dart past crates and droids of all sorts, is that once upon a time he earned this weapon while fighting in the name of the Empire; an Empire that no longer garners his every waking thought and breath in adoration.

He wants, Kallus realizes, to earn it in the name of something else; something that is not the Empire, and is what one purple, striped warrior calls home. It is no secret that Agent Kallus does not belong there; among the warriors Zeb has grown to call his people, but more importantly it is a secret that he would most certainly like to. Kallus would like to walk the path Garazeb walks, to tread softly after the larger, honorable man and leave behind his terrible past to live as a man; a  _ rebel _ , rather than an agent.

No part of him has any desire to carry the title of Agent for one more unbearable moment.

Agent Kallus takes one step forwards, and then another. Before he realizes it, Kallus is halfway across the hangar and shifting from a brisk walk into a run.

_ “Wait!”  _ he cries, holding out one hand as he is inches from the main doors, knowing the alarms will sound, knowing he is not alone with Zeb in that hangar, that Sabine Wren is there, too and he cannot run after Zeb so easily.

He halts, and stands two meters, at most, from Zeb, who has also stopped. “Fair treatment entails what exactly?”

Zeb’s mouth opens; of course, it isn’t to reply, because what reply can a man like Garazeb Orrelios offer a wide-eyed, stumbling Imperial Agent who asks him a question like  _ that _ in a place like this? Gaping at him, Zeb says nothing, and Sabine Wren shoots instead. She misses, perhaps because Zeb turns to shout in alarm. It’s enough of a distraction that she doesn’t shoot again before Agent Kallus takes cover, and the two Spectres don’t see where he goes to hide.

This is the first time Alexsandr’s hopes of joining the Rebellion are crushed.

* * *

He ought to pay more attention to his surroundings. Yularen tells him this a dozen times each day in training, and he reminds himself every day. So when less than a standard week later, a civilian in the crowd deposits a creased aging piece of flimsi in his hand, Kallus shouldn’t be surprised, and he definitely shouldn’t not have so much as a clue as to where to begin his search for the messenger.

The stormtroopers keep their vigilant, but clearly flawed watch nonetheless, and none notice Kallus stiffening ever so slightly, or making his way towards the Imperial Complex again. He slips into an alleyway with enough ease the dying spirit of an Imperial Agent protests from within, though feebler than it has every other time Kallus steps back from His Excellency’s Empire.

Still, Kallus has yet to forgo caution in every sense of the word and slips into the shadows of the night under a broken streetlamp’s flickering, sparking reach. His hands, through training and discipline, are just barely able to remain steady as he unfolded the sheet of flimsi in his hands. In between the moments of darkness, only a few words at a time, when those sparks offer just enough light to see by, Kallus reads.

_ Kal, _

_ Listen, I know this could fall into the wrong hands, Ezra’s friends aren’t exactly the most trustworthy bunch, but they mean well. It’s why I’m doing this at all, but it’s also why I won’t put anything here I wouldn’t say to you in person, in front of every buckethead in the Empire but I have to tell you this. _

_ You made a mistake. You stayed behind and you almost sacrificed your life for something you don’t even believe in anymore, and something that definitely doesn’t believe in you. I don’t know how you made it back to them, or why, but I know there’s a part of you that knows this isn’t right. I saw it. I still see it, even if you don’t. _

_ You’re not one of them. Not sure you have been, not for some time. You put on the stupid costume, rehearsed their stupid plays, but it’s not you. It never has been. _

_ I hope you at least tried to chase those answers, tried to figure out who you were besides just an Imp. Whoever it was I saw holding that meteor, it wasn’t who I thought it was, and maybe you aren’t who you thought you were either. And that’s okay, you know, to be someone besides who you thought you were. It’s okay to realize you fit in somewhere besides where you thought you always would. _

_ Just think about it. You’ve got a brain in there somewhere, just use it for something other than the Empire. Start with yourself, and then see where you go from there. You’ll be glad you did. _

There is no signature, but Kallus doesn’t need one to know who the slanted scrawl belongs to, as if its coarse strokes and steady lines of ink don’t tell him enough already.  _ He knows. Garazeb knows.  _ There is no denying the truth in the Lasat’s words, nor the voice bellowing in his own carved out, Imperial durasteel heart.

Though he searches again and again for the many scattered words spilling a molten hot flame into the chasm of his heart, Kallus finds the resolve to fold the letter along the same creases he knows were chased by claws and much larger fingers. Each fold, however, is not the goodbye he fears it to be, but rather, one more spark.

Whether because of Garazeb, or because of his own inner flame, Kallus is no longer the same man he had been stepping into the darkened alleyway, and he in no way resembles the man standing in the viewport overlooking the empty sands of Geonosis from orbit.

Instead of clenching a bo-rifle in his grasp, Kallus tightens his grip on nothing but the air as the sound of his glove’s fabric rumpling gives him the tether to this moment, in which he tucks the folded up piece of flimsi under his cuirass and below the collar of his tight, now _ suffocating _ Imperial uniform. He is no longer content to be an instrument for the will of an oppressive force of destruction and agony in the galaxy.

_ This _ is his answer.

——

“Archaic, undisciplined, impossible  _ thing! _ ” Kallus shouts, sweeping the materials from the desk in his quarters. Though the letter Zeb wrote him sits off to the side, spared from his frustrations, it is the only survivor of the destruction. 

Relentlessly, the words flood his mind and send an unsteady rhythm through his fingertips until he cannot bear to look at them any longer, and they continue to fail him. 

_ Dear Garazeb.  _ Kallus tries.  _ Zeb. Rebel, Orrelios. _

None of them work.

~~_ Zeb _ ~~

~~_ Lasat _ ~~

~~_ Orrelios _ ~~

~~_ Garazeb _ ~~

_ Zeb _

_ There are a few truths I am certain of. _

_ Using such an unreliable and less than secure means of communication is compromising to you and to myself in ways you cannot begin to imagine. _

_ I have made a number of mistakes and been accused of many more. You are not the first to do so, and you will certainly not be the last. _

_ I have been loyal to the Empire for more years than I have not and believed in its goals since before the Republic fell. _

_ I do not wear a costume. I wear a uniform; a thing trillions of faces recognize as a beacon of order and- _

And what, exactly?

What else can he write that he does not believe, that is not from an Imperial textbook or piece of blatant propaganda and not from the depths of his soul (still present, as twisted and misguided as Kallus has come to realize it may be).

The smack of his forehead sends a vibration through the thin durasteel top, loose locks falling next to the folded flimsi, the  _ letter _ , from Zeb just to the side of the rest of his smushed face. Hands sneaking up the side of his head as it hangs over the edge of the desk, fingers wringing and pulling at his own hair in frustration, Kallus groans.

In just a few short sentences, the Lasat proves he is more alive, more of a person than even the most perfect Imperial, ISB Agent Kallus.  _ Or perhaps not so perfect, given my inability to reestablish my blind loyalty to the Empire and its forces. _ As disappointed as he ought to have been in himself, Kallus cannot bring himself to mind the fact he is no longer blind to the truth. How ironic, a man devoted to the unquestionable authority and superiority of human and humanoid species is entirely disconnected from his own humanity.

Although his inevitable crisis of identity looms over his head as surely as the moons over Lothal do the night sky, Kallus squeezes his eyes closed, takes in a deep breath and begins scrutinizing each and every word on his own page of flimsi.

Not once does he make mention of the Lasat, of Garazeb Orrelios, nor does he answer a single one of the questions asked of him. In fact, the entire thing is a dreadful list of pieces of information hardly different from a report he submits after encountering the Spectres. 

It is almost like the man in the alley, reduced to begging for scraps of words from a man seen as criminal and terrorist in the eyes of every soul surrounding him, is gone, and though he still grasps the letter and struggles with a desperation to be known, Kallus knows deep down he will struggle to escape the clutches of his terror of being seen.

The Empire might believe Garazeb is a criminal, but Kallus does not believe the Empire any longer, no matter how many twisted phrases he has rehearsed or can offer on command as if he is a trained traveling circus animal. He certainly doesn’t believe the Imperials about the Lasat warrior, nor does he care to. Garazeb deserves better than for his words to be treated as if Kallus is writing a report no one will read.

Tearing the flimsi to shreds, Kallus pulls one last sheet by its corner from the thin pile of fresh pages, and it settles on the desk in front of him. One way or another, what he writes is going to be  _ honest _ , but more importantly, it will be truthful.

And so once more, Kallus writes.

* * *

Zeb hasn’t told him what fair treatment entails, and he doesn’t know what the Lasat might have said to him if even the most wayward of members of Clan Wren weren’t as deft in combat as they are. But regardless, he sits across the way from a Togruta in a hood, knuckles turning white as he clutches a drink that has not come near his lips.

Even with a shroud over his head, green much like that of Garazeb’s eyes, he remembers, Kallus can see everything around him, and hear even more. It is no secret those amongst ISB ranks have eyes everywhere, even rumored to be in the back of their heads, though none but his are in that bar, or anywhere near the complex. Although he remains under the watchful gaze of Helia, a young rebel leaning against the bar just out of the corner of his eye, she hardly suspects he knows she is there.

Ahsoka, however, seems perfectly aware her accomplice has been discovered, and shakes her head with a sad smile. “The Admiral hasn’t lost his touch,” she said, almost laughing.

The very idea that anyone, much less someone claiming to be a member of Rebel Intelligence, believes Kassius competent is enough to make Kallus consider abandoning the meeting altogether. “Who? Konstantine?”  _ Honestly, you’d think they knew at least that much. _

“No, Kallus. I’m talking about someone else. Someone you and I both knew.”

“ _ Who _ ?”

“Colonel, formerly Admiral, Yularen,” Ahsoka says. “He picks his students with enough precision to split an arrow in half, and guides his allies with even more care than a mother with her child. You’ve come far.”

“Because of Yularen?”

“Because of yourself. You will make it far as an informant for the Rebellion, as well.”

“An informant?”

“Yes, isn’t that what you wanted?” Ahsoka asks.

_ No _ , Kallus tells himself.  _ I don’t want to be an informant. I don’t ever want to go back there. _

He doesn’t say as much out loud, but from the fallen look on Ahsoka’s face, she already knows what he hasn’t said.

She reaches out across the table as if to take his gloved hand, and then withdraws from the cold, crisp Imperial darkness. She cannot comfort him any more than she can change the reality of the situation. He knows her answer to the question he hasn’t asked.  _ That isn’t even a remote possibility. One way or another, you will be going back to that Star Destroyer in orbit. Whether or not you serve the Rebellion is another thing. But you will never be one of us. _

Pointedly ignoring the crinkle of folded flimsi in his pocket as he leans forward, Kallus tries (and fails) to push the carefully crafted words on the page from his mind.

“I don’t think any of this is what we wanted. But it’s what we have,” Kallus settles on, keeping the woman’s gaze without so much as a frown, his expression settling on an impassive neutral. “I make it further than anyone ever suspects in every pursuit of mine. This will be no different.”

Ahsoka does not say anything, and does not move, still searching the soul lurking behind Kallus’s steady golden eyes. “I think you believe that. But I also think you are as much a danger to yourself as you are to the Empire. Every step you take will separate you from your past, from your present, and from whatever future you’ve ever had in mind. This is not an easy decision.”

“This is right. That’s all that matters.”

“The  _ only _ thing that matters? Or is there something else?”

Kallus doesn’t so much as blink and snatches up the disk from underneath Ahsoka’s fingertips. “If there is, it’s in the past now, isn’t it? It’s never going to happen.”

Ahsoka pauses with her fingertips on the scratched, wooden surface and nods once. She rises to her feet, waves at Helia, and disappears with a flutter of her cloak. Ahsoka’s “hidden” companion stands in the doorway and sighs, meeting Kallus’s gaze when he turns over his shoulder to look at her.

He blinks, and she disappears into the crowd, leaving Kallus to squeeze his eyes shut a moment too soon, as one tear rolls down his face, and a swelling sensation of grief rises in his chest. He has no right to this grief, nor does he have any to the ache and indisputable longing he feels.

This is the second time Alexsandr’s hopes of being a rebel are crushed.

No matter how battered and broken they may be, Kallus, nor his dreams, are so easily defeated. With the sharp gaze of the deadliest of predators, he chooses his target within seconds, gaze narrowing as surely as his fist is curling around the glass in his free hand, a folded up piece of flimsi still in the other gloved, sweating hand.

He watches.

One drunken stumbling man is hauled from the floor by the burliest bartender, a Zabrak woman with a scowl on her face and a towel in her free hand. He stumbles out the back door into the alleyway and into a dumpster. At the first strike of man against durasteel, Kallus is on his feet and striding across the bar towards the same door. The Zabrak is more concerned with her patrons struggling to recover from the outburst of the man on his hands and knees in the alleyway, leaving Kallus free to slip out after him and out of sight of anyone in the aftermath of the chaos.

[rises and tracks another rebel into an alley. Has a crumbled up letter in his hand, and was originally going to ask Ahsoka to give it to Zeb, but lost hope until he chooses to be selfish (leading zeb on about a future each step as fulcrum will lead him further away from is only selfish and evil, how could it be anything else?]

He is about to tell this rebel to deliver another message entirely, that he has no intention of accepting Garazeb’s charity, nor his offer of fair treatment, and that he intends to bring him and the other Spectres to justice. This does not make it past his lips. “Deliver this,” Kallus says instead. “To the one they call Spectre Four.”

When the man, who he knows has not been inebriated this entire time, straightens with all the fortitude of a man who is wholly sober, Kallus releases his hold on the sealed envelope, and watches the rebel turn over the envelope in his grasp. “What for?”

“He’ll know.”

Kallus’s answer, though it doesn’t satisfy the rebel, is all Kallus says to this man, the very last link to Garazeb clutching Kallus’s words to the Lasat in gloved hands. Before Kallus rounds the corner, he turns back to watch as the flimsi is tucked in the rebel’s brown and blue coat, heading towards the opposite crowded street, and away from the home grime he’d brushed from his face. 

Off in the galaxy, the message he so desperately wanted to give Garazeb Orrelios embarks on its journey, and only time will tell if it reaches its destination.

_ Warrior _

_ Out of everything you could have chosen to contact me with, your choice was a reverse pick-pocket and a piece of flimsi? An archaic means of communication, but I must commend you for your brilliant idea, even if we stand on entirely opposite ends of the galaxy in more ways than one. _

_ I must tell you, I am more than aware of the fact my stupid costume inspires no small amount of fear into the hearts of millions of Imperials, and a significant number of civilians. It is not only a beacon of Imperial law, but of unyielding, relentless pursuit of that which others do not see fit for us to find. I have long seen it as a symbol of accomplishment and the means by which I establish order and stave off the will of those who would seek the Empire’s destruction and undoing, and did not question as much until I met you. _

_ The Empire provides what is necessary to its troops, to its officers, and nothing else. Training provides the foundation of a chance for a wellspring of people who face a shortage of opportunity in a war-torn broken galaxy who might otherwise not receive such an opportunity. Ration bars are allocated as seen fit, as is education, which you may have noticed, as not one member of Imperial forces out in the field and engaged in combat with you demonstrates the more creative thinking your own forces do, and no variation exists in either their appearance, or their composition. _

_ To wear this uniform, I, like many others, consume what the Empire provides us with, and little else for the duration of our service, and for many, the only end for said service is obliteration. Straying from the path I have taken for so long is acceptable under one of two circumstances. “Retirement” and the destruction of my reputation and career, or taking my last breaths on a frozen moon, alone, and wishing I was wearing something warmer. _

_ Your own solution is the combination of the worst traits of the two, the abandonment and disregard of my entire career, followed by a swift and sudden onset of cold as warmth and color drain from my skin for good rather than for days. This is what my mind tells me; to choose your way is to choose unquestionable obliteration. _

_ And yet, it is your choice. You choose to stand against the will of what has rightfully been considered a force of unquestionable power for so many years and obliterated each opponent with ease and an extreme shortage of satisfaction with each victory. The Empire will not be satisfied with the destruction of the Ghost, of Phoenix Cell and the Alliance the former senator attempts to rally. _

_ Is it possible that I simultaneously do and do not understand your decision? _

_ The idea of leaving behind every single memory, every identical hallway, every expressionless helmet and endless demands for order and power is a sweeter drug than anything made from the mines of Kessel. And yet, how can I? How can I, or anyone, turn my back on a conflict that has only grown despite each attempt to snuff out the spark that has slowly but surely rose to fuel a flame of unrelenting perseverance? _

_ I do not know the answer, not to many of the questions I ask, but I hope I might one day find them. _

_ These are not the last answers I seek, nor the only questions I will wrestle with, but I have chosen to pursue the truth, be it between the lines of script, or in the whispers of the people. I can only hope what decision I make will be based on more than the shouts desperation of a few crooked beings who care for themselves and their own conquests. _

_ Until then, I must bid you farewell. _

_ Sincerely _

_ Truth Seeker. _


	2. Chapter 2

Any dreams of Kallus personally handing Zeb the letter that threatened to destroy the walls he’d build around his barricaded heart crumbled that day, leaving him to wonder what Zeb might say, what words scratched across flimsi would tumble once more into black-gloved hands. The only difference now is the man wearing the uniform. Perhaps merely weeks before, Agent Kallus donned this clothing and did so without flinching, without cringing and tugging on the collar and cuirass struggling to breathe under the weight of guilt settled on his chest.

Each morning, he fights for his breath.

Battling with the darkness in every corner, the remaining shadows’ edges blur with the little to no light left in the halls of the powerless imperial complex. It’s a brilliant idea, there’s no doubt about it, but it makes his work just that much harder. While Kallus is sure that is their goal, he knows it is not in the best interest of these rebels, nor is it particularly wise in terms of these same rebels being able to navigate the darkness of the unending, interconnected halls and escape. 

He is on his way to prove a lifeline, a lifeline for these thoughtless, careless fighters when he stops in his tracks and turns over his shoulder to see a silhouette too large to belong to any Imperial, and only to a few rebels, almost none of which are in this sector. All except one.

He sees Garazeb stalk across the hall, and there is not so much as a welcoming twitch of an ear. In fact, both of them fold backwards and down and the Lasat growls. Each rumble of the sound crackles in his chest, but either this is exactly what Garazeb intends, or he is enraged enough it does not matter. 

To Kallus, what matters is the sure furious swing of Garazeb’s bo-rifle; he lunged for Kallus’s throat. Gone is the elegant warrior Kallus knows so well; Captain Orrelios’ rage makes him into a fighting machine, just as deadly and exacting as he always is, but behind Kallus’s narrowed eyes and commendations as a formidable Agent, and exacting tool of the Empire, there is just as deadly and battle-ready a man.

For a second, Garazeb reaches for Kallus’s side, but he is nothing if not prepared, and seizes the opportunity as well as the Lasat’s neck from behind. With his bo-rifle’s staff pressed into the lasat’s neck and his knee in that striped spine, he exhaled heavily and leans forward to rumble in Garazeb’s ear. “I see you didn’t receive my letter then.”

Garazeb growls, trying to slip out from the choke hold Kallus has on him, and failing when Kallus readjusts to compensate. With his own wrapped weapon out of reach of any of his four limbs, Zeb struggles against the leverage Kallus has on him. “Oh, I did,” he finally spits out. “And here you are.”

“Well, in that case,” Kallus says lowly, his body shifting behind Zeb’s. He feels the Lasat’s body, every muscle flexed and muscular frame rigid.  _ Is he afraid?  _ Kallus wonders, but dismisses the thought. Zeb received his letter, and all has been putting on a show the entire time. Of course it makes sense he’d act unhinged enough to take them both to a secluded place. So, Kallus takes a step back and releases his hold of one of his hands on the bo-rifle and allows Zeb to slip free while he takes a moment to brush off the dust, imaginary or otherwise on his coat. “An impressive show, I must say.”

Zeb turns around; at the sight of Kallus absentmindedly readjusting his clothing his entire expression is written in bewildered tones. “What?”

“Your performance? Surely you meant to drive us away from the others. It wouldn’t do for our correspondence to be discovered, at least not by the entire Empire and all your comrades.” Kallus sighs, leaning down to grasp Zeb’s weapon, and inspect the sacred thing, crouching just a meter or so from where Zeb stands. “More excellent strategy on your part.”

“Right,” Zeb says, still motionless, a mix of green, yellow and purple out of the corner of Kallus’s eye. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“Surely not,” Kallus thumbs over an etching under one of the handles of Zeb’s weapon. He frowns, feeling the ridges and curves even through the cloth of his glove, trying to make sense of the word he knows is not in aurebesh.  _ Lasana, perhaps? _ Kallus wonders, and lifts his head to ask Zeb the question when all he sees is a blur of movement, and cries out as he drops both bo-rifles and tumbles further down the darkened Imperial hallway. 

Those hands - massive hands of a deadly warrior, a killer - reach for Kallus’s collared throat, but even without a bo-rifle, he is still a more than capable fighter. He moves out of the way just as durasteel shrieks under the claws of his would-be killer, and seizes either of Zeb’s forearms. Bracing himself while the Lasat pushes against him, Kallus clenches his jaw and bares his teeth, feeling his strength begin to give way.

In a hair’s breadth of a second, Kallus shifts his hold on Zeb, twisting both of the Lasat’s arms and pulling with the full force of his own strength and whatever power gravity provides to send Zeb to the floor. With a loud thud, the Lasat is on his back with the wind stealing not only his breath but his strength just long enough for Kallus to position himself overtop of Zeb, one boot on Zeb’s wrist, and his knee on Zeb’s other arm, his bo-rifle in hand. 

It doesn’t take Zeb long to regain his bearings, the undeniable instincts of a predator drawing the dazes Lasat from his haze into the thick of battle; a battle which he realizes, without more time than the length of one slow blink to shed his dizziness, he has lost. Kallus can see all this and more, when Zeb stares up at Kallus, green eyes wide and ears fallen down.

“If you received my letter, then you undoubtedly know I received yours,” Kallus spits, chest heaving and a few loose strands of hair lifting with each of his tremulous, however controlled, breaths. “And I believe I made a point of informing you exactly how much distaste I carry for-”

“For rebels like me,” Zeb growls. “Yeah a great surprise that was. You telling me I’m clever for sending you a letter and an idiot because of fighting for what I believe in.”

“It is foolhardy, and destructive. You inflict a pain upon yourself, and upon countless others, unlike any other to stand against what you know to be unjust and cruel,” Kallus exhales through his nose, grimacing as though the words cause him as physical a pain as the blood trickling down the side of his head and into his uniform. “You are ready to bleed for a rebellion whose members have been squeezed dry of every last drop of life time and time again. And the Empire insists it’s all you have left to give, that your hatred blinds you to the pain.”

“Because the Empire took everything else!” Zeb shouts, attempting to twist out of Kallus’s grasp once again, but this time, the Imperial Agent’s hold is unyielding.

“But the reason why you choose to bleed is not because of a loss so great the contents of your veins are consumed with grief,” Kallus says. “It is because you do not bleed without feeling pain. It is because others do not suffer and grieve without your own hearts aching as surely as yours.”

Zeb snorts. “Not bad. You actually used your eyes for once. You realized I actually have a heart, unlike people like you, Imp.”

“People like me, but that does not include me,” Kallus shakes his head, the cool durasteel touch of his bo-rifle’s muzzle under the thin velvet of Zeb’s chin. “I’ve found the truth. About the Empire, about you Rebels; about myself,” Kallus spits.

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” Zeb shakes his head, and bitter green eyes stare up in defiance against a seething Kallus. “You’re right, and I’m wrong no matter how many morals I use to justify my actions?”

“No,” Kallus says, reaching up his gloved-hand to brush the loose hair in his face back, only for several more locks to frizz and stick up. “I was wrong.”

Zeb gawks in silence, and he stares past the blaster in Kallus’s hands to pour a bewildered gentleness not otherwise bestowed upon Kallus’s being. “Well, why didn’t you just say all that in the letter?”

“I did!”

“You did not! You wrote some crap about how your uniform is important and that choosing to stand against the Empire is a death-sentence.”

“It most certainly is!”

“Which one?”

“Both, Garazeb.”

“That’s ridiculous, how can you say both are true?”

Kallus knows he walks a line so dangerous he might as well scratch the word  _ SPY _ across his face. He shouldn’t tell Garazeb Orrelios anything; not a kriffing thing. And yet, it’s all he can to do find thing to keep telling this man about. “Because they are. Because I believe as much.”

“What can a uniform like that give you that you don’t from the destruction you and your Empire leave in your wake? And if it’s such a death-sentence, why am I still alive? Why are so many beings like me still alive?”

_ Because the Empire is rotting to its core, and even with all the resources in the galaxy, they cannot eradicate the foundation of your existence; they cannot eradicate hope.  _ But this is not an answer he can give Zeb; he cannot tell Garazeb Orrelios why he still wears Imperial greys and places weight after weight overtop of his chest each day he looks in the mirror to the man of his nightmares staring back at him. “Because you are not me,” Kallus says instead. “You have never worn this uniform, nor any like it. Defying the Empire means signing my own death warrant.”

“And serving them signs it, too.” Zeb doesn’t need to remind Kallus of as much; he still hasn’t recovered from the pain at being at the mercy of an indifference ice moon as content to feed on his soul as the cruel Empire.

“It’s already etched into stone,” Kallus’s mouth thins into a near invisible line, and his eyes flicker over to the control panel for the blast doors not too far away. “I’m a dead man. Perhaps moreso than you are.”

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying, Kallus. You aren’t making a lick of sense,” Zeb shakes his head. “What’s going on with you? Have you finally cracked?”

“I may be a dead man, but I intend to live for every moment until the Empire says I can’t,” Kallus takes in a deep breath, and returns his gaze to those big green eyes. Lowering the bo-rifle, he reaches for his comm-link and presses the button to hail the base commander. “C0mmander.”

The Imperial commander is cold, and indifferent. It does not matter to him in the least the losses they experience, nor the activities of the ISB agent on site. Still, he acknowledges the contact. “Agent Kallus. Did you capture the Rebel you pursued?” 

Zeb looks up at Kallus; though he is hardened by war and pain, the fear in his eyes, the same fear at the mention of being locked up in an Imperial prison, is unmistakable. 

“No,” Kallus says, rising to his feet and stepping over Zeb towards the blast doors. “He escaped, and I was unable to pursue him.”

“Unfortunate,” the commander says, but it doesn’t take a genius to know he doesn’t mean it. Any accomplishments on base would have been credited to Kallus, but any failures would be his fault. Either way, it does not matter. “We shall regroup and attempt to prevent their escape.”

“Very well, commander. I will rendezvous with you shortly.”

“Understood, Agent Kallus.”

Zeb scrambles over to grasp his bo-rifle, and watches Kallus walk away without so much as a care for the prisoner he ought to have captured. “What are you doing?”

Kallus shrugs. “You wouldn’t want to make a liar out of me, now would you?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Go on,” Kallus waves his free hand, punching the button for the blast doors to close. “Escape,” he says, and Zeb stands, dumbfounded, unmoving.

“Go!” Kallus shouts, attempting to wrangle Zeb out of whatever trance he is caught in. It works, if only for a moment, because Zeb stumbles backwards, still staring at Kallus, still searching his enemy’s eyes for an answer, any answer at all. Kallus knows he will not find them, not if Kallus doesn’t give them out, and he has no intention of doing any such thing. 

He is just as lost in those confused, green eyes, just as still, and continues to watch Zeb shuffle backwards until the doors are nearly closed and Zeb seems to realize Kallus is the one slipping away, the one escaping. He lunges for the doors, but is too late; unyielding durasteel separates them completely, moments before his striped fist collides with the barrier.

* * *

Now that he is Fulcrum, he cannot falter. 

As perfect an Imperial as ever, all the disobedience and rebellion Kallus can dare risk is masked under the shadow of his undying loyalty. So when one moment, his hands are empty and the next he feels the weight of what ought to be nothing when faced with his strength, Kallus’s breath is barely allowed to hitch, and he watches the sea of Imperial gray for any sign of yet another Rebel sympathizer delivering things, any semblance of a tether to Garazeb Orrelios.

Whoever slipped the flimsi into his hand is more than suited to the task, not to mention well trained. He cannot find them, nor should he search. After all, at least an hour remains between himself and the end of his shift, and he ought to stay for some time beyond that point, as he is wrought to do.

Until the moment his eyes first catch a glimpse of the ink on the page, Kallus can do nothing but think of the possibilities.  _ Is Garazeb angry with me? Does he know who I am, what I’m doing? Is he asking questions? _

_ More importantly, do those questions even have answers? Do I? _ Biting his lip, Kallus knows all too well how poorly composed his letter to Garazeb was, how ill-fitted he is to speak the truth when the only things woven into his mind, his very being, are lies. He has been lied to, accepted lies, only to reject them years later and tell some of his very own. It is so difficult, Kallus realizes, to tell the truth when you cannot seem to be told said truth. He cannot tell Zeb he is Fulcrum any more than he can tell Admiral Konstantine.

It’s self-defeating, for Kallus to wonder what things Zeb tells and asks him only to decide before ever knowing what Zeb has actually written that he will hear nothing in return. If he wants to receive another letter, (which he most certainly does, even if Kallus does not know exactly why) he cannot withhold himself from the pages and withhold the truth. He is going to have to choose, and the galaxy points very clearly at one of his options.

As nervous as sixteen-year-old newly recruited Imperial Cadet Kallus, with more than enough wondering and longing to last him a lifetime, the moment the door to his quarters close behind him, Kallus kicks off his boots and tumbles into the bunk, one of his few luxuries. The velvety-soft blanket brushes against his skin, and Kallus is more than willing to tear off his gloves and grasp a fistful with one hand, and unfold the letter with another.

Eager as he is, Kallus doesn’t take in a word of what is before his eyes; they move more rapidly than his mind, leaving him to go back and reread once he realizes not a one of the words settles in his memory.

_ Truth-Seeker _

_ You went back. _

_ I know you did; I saw you, fought you, talked to you, and you told me to leave, but I wished you hadn’t. _

_ Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know, but I don’t understand you. Every time I think I do, you shatter my expectations, and it makes me so angry every time. I don’t like being wrong, but with you? I’m wrong every time. _

_ Gerrera, Lasan, Geonosis. You poke holes in all my views of you, every time, and if it wasn’t so kriffing scary anyone could be so complicated, it isn’t any easier when we’re standing on opposite sides of the battlefield. Or when you turn and walk away from someone at your mercy. I don’t get it, Truth-Seeker, I really don’t. _

_ You could’ve killed me. You’ve tried to before, you had everything you needed, and you sent me away. It’s not a matter of pride, we’ve always fought each other as equals before, but I just- I don’t understand it. I can’t make sense of something that doesn’t make sense. How can you hate the Empire, hate the Rebellion, and help me? How can you see what’s so wrong with the Empire, tell me you’re just looking out for your own skin and hand over the blade of choice to whoever will hunt you once they find out? _

_ I didn’t want to scare you, or to remind you of exactly what’s at stake when you do things like that, but there’s no way you don’t know. You know exactly what happens to people who stand against the Empire, and maybe more than I do about what happens when they get caught. You probably know what happens to those who aren’t executed. Believe me, it’s not hard to imagine, and I’m not there. I don’t see it every day. _

_ I don’t know why you’re risking everything for something I’m not so sure you believe in. You’re helping me, and you’re standing there in your stupid uniform with a brokenness in your eyes I’ve only ever seen in Imperial prisoners. You’re so kriffing confusing, I don’t understand a word of what you said, and I have no clue why you do half the things you do. Not on that frozen rock, and not on the battlefield. _

_ You know, I thought I knew who you were. It was easy. You were Imperial, and I was Lasat, a Spectre, and then I was a Rebel. It took me so long to know who I was, where I fit in when there wasn’t a single place left for me in the galaxy, let alone one I could make for myself. And just when I started to figure that out, you come in and shake everything up. Every time. Every single time, you’re there. _

_ The Empire used to make me think I did something to deserve it all. I didn’t know what, but if I couldn’t escape you, I couldn’t have been a victim, I had to have deserved it. It sounds crazy, I knew it sounded crazy even when I thought about it, but I didn’t have anything else, only the fact that I was angry, and I was alone. I’m still angry, and I’m less alone, but it still hurts. I’m hurting, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop, but for some reason, it bothers me that you’re the same way. _

_ It’s not the same thing, I know we’re completely different, and we don’t even look each other in the eye, we don’t “exchange pleasantries” or whatever ridiculous thing you’d call saying hello, and good morning. But I also know that for whatever reason, the neat and tidy uniform is hiding someone who’s been torn to pieces. _

_ Why are you in pieces? Why do I care? I shouldn’t care, that’s what everyone would tell me if I said anything, and maybe it’s what you’d tell me too, but Truth-Seeker, but I care. I don’t know why, but I do. You have it all, you have everything you could ever want, ever dream of wanting, but you aren’t just miserable,]: you’re hurting. _

_ I don’t get it. How are you miserable just being the same person you’ve always been? How are you hurting by living? I don’t know the first thing about you, not a damn thing, but I wouldn’t think it’s that bad. You believe in the Empire, you believe in what you do, and for some reason that’s all twisted up in propaganda and your past, you still fight for a cause that would drop you in a heartbeat. That did dropkick you into an escape pod and under the surface of that unending blizzard. _

_ I don’t understand you, but what I’m trying to say is, I want to. I want to understand, I want to know what you’re thinking. I don’t even know who you are, what your name is, where you’re from, why you do what you do. It’s all a mystery. You’re a blank slate in my mind. There’s so many pieces missing, and I guess I realized I don’t know anything about you. _

_ Tell me what you can. I know you can’t say it all, but I want to know what you can tell me. At the very least, will tell me why you did it? Why I walked away from that battle between us? I shouldn’t have. You got the best of me twice, and I was so pissed, I didn’t even stop to realize you had to have had a reason. _

_ If you don’t write back, I won’t bother you again, but I had to try. _

_ Hoping to hear back from you. _

_ Warrior _

Below the signature, the scratched, jagged scrawled ink delves into the thinnest of lines, curving, twisting, sweeping. Every motion is encased in the drawing, a drawing of a hallway, from the opposite side of the door he’d been standing behind, and instead of watching the face of a particular Lasat disappear from view as the square grows smaller and smaller between the edges of blast doors, Kallus sees himself. Frozen in time, framed by the same window of view and holding his bo-rifle over his head with one hand, Kallus sees his eyes.

They stare at some imperceptible object, nothing he can see, but perhaps it is best the ink does not tear into his very being, searching through his soul. Still, it does not mean Kallus cannot see. The thin line of his mouth, or the wrinkles in his glove from clutching his weapon so tightly his fingers begin to hurt only fuel the pain etched into those eyes.

He fights the urge to tremble, to cry out and to reach for someone who is not there, someone he cannot reach. Not physically, and not emotionally. Kallus knows this. He knows all too well how his cold demeanor and unrelenting pain mask a man in constant terror, brimming with self-doubt and apprehension at even the smallest of exchanges outside a chain of command.

All Kallus can do is sit and stare; stare at the drawing, where his sharp edges are smooth, and he is in his uniform from head to toe, but bare and exposed in the darkness of his own mind, and in the eyes of one too perceptive Lasat, if this letter is any indication of that man’s inherent sharp mind.

He cannot stay silent, cannot keep himself from the ink and pages now unable to escape his own words, his own consciousness. If he does not expel any trace of the ache settled behind his ribcage, Kallus knows it will consume him.

Eventually, with no small amount of effort, Kallus takes in a breath, and releases it into the air in front of him. Within moments, he looks between Zeb’s letter and his own blank page a dozen times. He could say anything, anything at all to Garazeb, anything he wants so long as he can fit it on the page. And even still, he could stay nothing; not a thing would change.

But, as terrifying as the thought is, Kallus wants change. He wants desperately to feel the world around him shift in a direction that isn’t a detention center, or a frozen moon in either the name of galactic freedom or tyranny, but for himself. Driven by his own desire, unwilling to let go what ought to be the most selfish thing he will do in his entire life, Kallus takes hold of his pen, of his future.

Battle-worn hands wrought with the instinct to shake and the resounding command to be still, Kallus thumbs over the corner of a sheet and places it on the desk, beginning to herd his thoughts as poorly as a loth-cat would sheep, and into the pasture of the pages in his grasp.

_ Warrior, _

_ I am a stranger. In every meaning of the word, I cannot escape the truth that no matter where I go, I do not belong anywhere. People do not know me, no Imperial cares to, and neither do me enemies. This means not a single person in the galaxy has ever known me from the time I was born to this moment. No one wants to ask, and I cannot honestly tell you if it is bothersome because I know I do not want to share my stories or because I have none ready if the question were ever to arise. _

_ I can only tell you what I know. I know that I have never cared to be cared for. At least, I never thought of the possibility of such a thing being carved into my soul as a need I cannot escape. It is any being’s nature to long for such a thing, and I am inexplicably trapped by the notion that I cannot ever escape the beast I have unleashed. An old folk tale or a dozen serve to remind children it is only natural to want such a thing, but I cannot think to wonder if I am every bit the unloving, unlovable monster left in their imaginations. All it takes is a glance; no one need look further than the surface, and they will see what I deserve, what pain is made for me and what sentence I deserve to carry out for as long as I live. _

_ I cannot tell you that I deserve to be known, that I ought to throw open the door to my past and not drown in the flood waiting behind, ready to pull the breath from the lungs of a man who does not deserve your kindness. _

_ Seeking the truth proved to be an experience I struggle to put into words but know that the man you saw before the moon has been the only man anyone has ever seen in fifteen standard years, if not more. _

_ Onderon changed everything. I could no longer pretend the armor the Empire crafted would protect me. I learned that it wouldn’t always shelter me, and neither would anyone else. The only person who has ever looked out for my wellbeing, even before the Empire, has been myself. Until you. Until we spent the night over Geonosis, I’ve only ever been surrounded by Imperials. On Coruscant, aboard cruisers, in battles; it’s all I’ve ever known. _

_ Even in the Empire, I have nowhere and nothing. Its might does not count for one fraction of the efforts undergone to pull me from the darkness and out of the cold; the machine I have dedicated my life to cares only for my absence if I am to be replaced. _

_ I am not the only one who has made mistakes, costly ones, too. I am not the only one responsible, but I am most certainly the only one who cares. The Empire’s largest mistakes; the ones that matter, cannot be measured in any statistic important to a nameless, faceless entity sitting on a throne over the galaxy. No one cares to look at the impact of the search for materials on the farmers who lived in Tarkin Town, and no one cares to examine the empty places amongst the rank and file of troopers except to fill the gaps with poorer, hungrier, more desperate souls. _

_ You are not wrong. I returned to the Empire, perhaps more out of a sense of aimlessness than of duty. Not one moment passes where I do not wonder whether or not I made the right decision, and more and more often, the answer has strayed from “I am unsure” to a resounding no. _

_ I am certain I have made the wrong choice, perhaps only the latest in a series of mistakes. I am exhausted at the sheer magnitude of my mistakes and can only imagine the limitless repercussions of my own actions and the willful ignorance that fueled them and the suffering of millions of beings. _

_ And your suffering. _

_ There is no possible means by which I can write to you and confess knowledge of my wrongness, without telling you from the most honest part of my being that I am irrefutably at fault for your pain. Despite what you told me in the ice and snow, despite Lasan being over a decade ago, your eyes told me a different story than the one carried by the little warm air on that moon. With every breath you expelled your pain, but every word you did not say carried the agony of a being suffering in something worse than silence. _

_ Garazeb Orrelios, I am sorry. _

_ No excuse can ever begin to stay the pain of my heart by my own well-deserved blame, nor should they. You should never have been forced to carry that guilt, nor should you give another thought to shouldering that burden ever again. _

_ Do not ever think to blame yourself. Not one moment of the Empire’s cruelty belongs on any form of blame pointed towards you. _

_ You are not to be dismissed. Not by the Empire, and not by the galaxy. You have shown time and time again the force with which you battle. Do not ever surrender the will with which you fight, the will that enables you to stand up even when your entire body aches when you dare imagine the suffering of those undeserving. You will stand; you will rise up and throttle the broken regime. I know you will do everything in your power to fight for what you believe in, even if others tell you that you do not have the power to stand against and succeed against your opponent. _

_ Not one end of tyranny begins with giving way. _

_ In the corner of your ear, you carry more compassion, more decency than the millions of Imperials on Lothal, and perhaps more than any Imperial in the galaxy. Surely more than the entire population of Coruscant and the surrounding worlds. That is your strength, not only as a warrior, but as a living, breathing being. I have no doubt you and the Rebellion will rock the galaxy to its very core. _

_ Do not prove me wrong this time if you can help doing so. _

_ Truth-Seeker _


End file.
